The music I use to wash my hair every three days or so no longer wants to be heard in this world of performance-chakras, downloadable bubble-butts, and the fusion of every newfangled fascism under the sun. Even my handwriting, which I'd often come to find floating so carefree around the livingroom, bears the look of utter defeat. And
rhymes with electricty.
'Welcome to the world of the spy novel, sentence by sentence...' from the radio. Once fuel for a billion dreams in a more innocent time (we are told), it now serves mostly to remind us that even the ugliest of our toes needs to be fed.
Laughter rising from the street below, young people on their way to drink and dance in sweaty, crowded nightclubs and bars. Come midnight, they will simultaneously reveal their wings they had tucked away from sight, unfurling them briefly but with tremendous pride. Such transparency is required because the poets in this orbit are all heroin addicts. Their parables and aphorisms, though originating in good intent and fecundity of spirit, sit quietly at busy intersections, taking in all the hullabaloo, sipping wine while trying to appear wise. Clearly a hallucination, the latest science is vacationing on the beaches of Australlia, keeping a diary in which it dutifully records the arcane mysteries it can smell on the warm wind, failing to notice that the racial question has suddenly grown fins. No humming in public places, please. All floating knives are to report immediately to such and such a nanotechnology at the appointed time. We all know the drill, so we just smile and impose our own theory of what makes a circle a circle.
Melodies improvise themselves into being while I sleep. Glowing, perfectly oiled, chest-hairs have invaded my refuge in the virtual.
Rosicrucianism is simply not the place for me. Its secret leaders are impotent, no longer aroused by the mere sight of planes leaving the runway. My tongue knows the distance to downtown Montreal, comrades, the home of bicycles that yearn to be Mexico, anyway.
- ORAPTODOPORVIR - For Jase
- sytem evening run fun. sunderland picassa
- posty struktooral paisley
- hundreds of information
- this bore of self
- Neopaganism (Å®t Øf £övë)
- For Falk Rogner
- 1920's Faux-Aztec Interior Design (but with intest...
- . i artflash .
- hide under soup
- Kerry Liked To 'Dance'
- . spring.cleaning .
- gormation A1/2009
- Clara dearest girl, thanks, but I'm no deity. You'...
- Time - For CHM
- asemic g
- Brigitte 2
- kitab al-a'rad: burrow-nests
- Please close your eyes. I'm sitting at home and it...
- Dancing With Myself
- female duets
- Kiss the Sky
- Zephire (The Thief of Quicksilver - the Mother of ...
- termini (nid-nod for niflheim) Hi. De...
- Give wings to your dreams
- . end ofthe road .
- space night
- Laryngeal defunct defect parhelian perfunctoriness...
- Encrypt on fur All riding horses A fierce, untemp...
- At The Beginning Again
- se cur ed
- morning flu
- The Burgomeister
- artist enhanced
- Bloody Smiley - For Aaron Held
- The Joint Effort Wherein Cocaine Jesus and Doriand...
- Sorry for the delay in getting back to you. This i...
- Visits:Total ........................ 4,444
- The Buzzing Head is mine, all mine
- pane by pane
- item #7298 ...
- difficulty sleeping
- Ghost VIII
- over a year ago
- zig zig gag it zoo
- drunken gash of sailor flash inept that lie in b...
- NOCTURNAL EMISSIONS/ A VICIOUS CYCLE OF VENGEFUL M...
- stutter lust:
- blurry purse
- 2 Comments Close this window Jump to comment for...
- NOMADS - For Robert
- towards a clearing sky, heidegger
- This is a dressing-up-box, and in it you are dress...
- lights of asemic
- . caught in action .
- My name <!--k01=x98989.htm--><!--k01=12514a.htm-->...
- Ghost VII
- "Art is a complaint, or go do something else."--Jo...
- my family loves me
- Patty Smith
- item #7044 ...
- i see that you have illuminated that bone that li...
- fff fF Y Z O R 4
- Welcome To The World Of The Spy Novel
- may this century be named as new but it's only r...
- fF Y Z O R 3
- CRANE CRANE THE EMPTY HEART
- Automatic Ibis-Dog
- ▼ March (132)